Monday, June 30, 2003
Hip Hippie Hooray.
Alright I admit it. I admit it, ok? I'm a hippie. There you go, happy now? Sure, I'm dressed all in black, I abhor the smell of patchouli and the only dreadlock I come in contact with is the one on Sparky's back, the one my cat's too fat or lazy to deal with himself. Yes, I freak out a little around groups of drummers, and not in the positive freak-out way. And yes, I think free love is an oxymoron. However, I am a hippie nonetheless. Need proof? Come on over here and take a whiff of my armpits. No, come on, don't be scared. Thaaat's right. Get right in there. Smells like hippie, huh?
Yeah, I know. Today, though, only the right one smells that way. No, I don't understand it either. But it's part of my million-dollar experiment to find a deodorant that won't have me pawing at my underarms like a super-charged bonobo, and yet won't leave me smelling like a plate of liver-fried onions, either. This, as you may not be able to imagine, is beginning to feel like the impossible dream.
If I could use regular old chemically Secret or Arid XXXtra Dry or whatever's crowding the shelves these days, please believe I would. This whole spending my pay on new age cosmetics that seem only to increase the acridity of my sweat is not exactly what I had on the docket for myself. But ever since I became a food freak -- hippie, hippie, hippie! -- I've had to become a lot of other kinds of freaks, too. It's not enough that I must eschew ice cream, mushrooms, delicious puffy white bread, cheese and wine and most other delicious things because they wreak a variety of frankly vague and suspect symptoms on my body (itchy ears? stabbing chest pain? stuffy nose? foggy brain? And it all clears up when you knock off the mould, sugar, yeast and dairy? Yeah, right). Ohhhhh no. I must also come out in a bumpy, itchy, nasty allergic reaction to a certain kind of deodorant. The kind that works.
And believe me, I've tried them all, all the expensive deodorants in the health food aisle at the Superstore. They've all done a tour of duty on my pits. And most of them have been, well, the pits. Tom's of Maine? Extra onions please, double-fried! It was after my Tom's of Maine experiment that I had to actually throw out my winter coat. Sure, it was a big silver coat that had become several sizes too large (what with me laying off the puffy white bread and all), but still. Smelled like onions. Out it went. Then I moved to the hippiest of the deodorants, the crystal. Basically, you run this rock under warm water, then rub it all over your pits. A better solution, but not perfect. The water never felt particularly warm as it dripped from my pits to my naked hips first thing in the morning. The crystal was given to falling out of its little plastic sheath and fracturing on the side of the sink. And it is what it says it is. It's a crystal. A rock. Pieces shear off and you're left with this small, sharp, jagged boulder to rub on your tender underbelly. Or, at least, your tender underarms. Next! Some chamomile stuff I can't remember the name of. Which made me smell like weeds, mixed with fried onions. The sport version of that product, which made me smell like sporty, weedy onions. On to Jason's apricot and E deodorant, which goes on hard, abrades your skin and leaves you smelling....anyone? Yes, that's right, like onions.
Now, I have nothing against the onion. In fact, I think it's a vital part of any balanced diet. And as far as satirical reading goes, you can't beat with a stick. But for my pits? No, no thanks, I'm full. But it's natural, the hippies among you say, to stink a little. You're only human after all. People shouldn't be so uptight about their bodies. Just let it ride. Ah yes. Well, if you'd care to ride on over to my armpits, we're serving fried onions today. Not interested? I thought not.
Today, I'm sporting something that might be called Wise Woman -- or it might not. Regardless of its name, it was made by and for hippies. It cost eight bucks, which is how you know. It's an improvement though. Fifty percent of my pits smell nice. Which is to say, it doesn't smell like a diner.
But my latent hippieism is about more than my aromatic armpits. Get this: I like kamut bread. I prefer the sugar free almond butter I eat to Jiffy. Soy milk? Love it. Really. I have tarot cards, and I'm not afraid to use them. I'm knitting myself a patchwork skirt, and have seriously thought about figuring out how to spin my own yarn. I'm a sucker for a singer-songwriter with an acoustic guitar. I haven't brushed my hair since the eighties. Mainly because if I brush it, it stands up all over my head, but never mind that now. Left to my own devices, I'll take off my shoes and socks and go barefoot. I swan around the house in a sarong. I've read Hermann Hesse and Carlos Casteneda, man. I am embracing my hippie tendencies. I am not ashamed of what I am!
But once I get this armpit thing under control? I'm going back underground.
Alright I admit it. I admit it, ok? I'm a hippie. There you go, happy now? Sure, I'm dressed all in black, I abhor the smell of patchouli and the only dreadlock I come in contact with is the one on Sparky's back, the one my cat's too fat or lazy to deal with himself. Yes, I freak out a little around groups of drummers, and not in the positive freak-out way. And yes, I think free love is an oxymoron. However, I am a hippie nonetheless. Need proof? Come on over here and take a whiff of my armpits. No, come on, don't be scared. Thaaat's right. Get right in there. Smells like hippie, huh?
Yeah, I know. Today, though, only the right one smells that way. No, I don't understand it either. But it's part of my million-dollar experiment to find a deodorant that won't have me pawing at my underarms like a super-charged bonobo, and yet won't leave me smelling like a plate of liver-fried onions, either. This, as you may not be able to imagine, is beginning to feel like the impossible dream.
If I could use regular old chemically Secret or Arid XXXtra Dry or whatever's crowding the shelves these days, please believe I would. This whole spending my pay on new age cosmetics that seem only to increase the acridity of my sweat is not exactly what I had on the docket for myself. But ever since I became a food freak -- hippie, hippie, hippie! -- I've had to become a lot of other kinds of freaks, too. It's not enough that I must eschew ice cream, mushrooms, delicious puffy white bread, cheese and wine and most other delicious things because they wreak a variety of frankly vague and suspect symptoms on my body (itchy ears? stabbing chest pain? stuffy nose? foggy brain? And it all clears up when you knock off the mould, sugar, yeast and dairy? Yeah, right). Ohhhhh no. I must also come out in a bumpy, itchy, nasty allergic reaction to a certain kind of deodorant. The kind that works.
And believe me, I've tried them all, all the expensive deodorants in the health food aisle at the Superstore. They've all done a tour of duty on my pits. And most of them have been, well, the pits. Tom's of Maine? Extra onions please, double-fried! It was after my Tom's of Maine experiment that I had to actually throw out my winter coat. Sure, it was a big silver coat that had become several sizes too large (what with me laying off the puffy white bread and all), but still. Smelled like onions. Out it went. Then I moved to the hippiest of the deodorants, the crystal. Basically, you run this rock under warm water, then rub it all over your pits. A better solution, but not perfect. The water never felt particularly warm as it dripped from my pits to my naked hips first thing in the morning. The crystal was given to falling out of its little plastic sheath and fracturing on the side of the sink. And it is what it says it is. It's a crystal. A rock. Pieces shear off and you're left with this small, sharp, jagged boulder to rub on your tender underbelly. Or, at least, your tender underarms. Next! Some chamomile stuff I can't remember the name of. Which made me smell like weeds, mixed with fried onions. The sport version of that product, which made me smell like sporty, weedy onions. On to Jason's apricot and E deodorant, which goes on hard, abrades your skin and leaves you smelling....anyone? Yes, that's right, like onions.
Now, I have nothing against the onion. In fact, I think it's a vital part of any balanced diet. And as far as satirical reading goes, you can't beat with a stick. But for my pits? No, no thanks, I'm full. But it's natural, the hippies among you say, to stink a little. You're only human after all. People shouldn't be so uptight about their bodies. Just let it ride. Ah yes. Well, if you'd care to ride on over to my armpits, we're serving fried onions today. Not interested? I thought not.
Today, I'm sporting something that might be called Wise Woman -- or it might not. Regardless of its name, it was made by and for hippies. It cost eight bucks, which is how you know. It's an improvement though. Fifty percent of my pits smell nice. Which is to say, it doesn't smell like a diner.
But my latent hippieism is about more than my aromatic armpits. Get this: I like kamut bread. I prefer the sugar free almond butter I eat to Jiffy. Soy milk? Love it. Really. I have tarot cards, and I'm not afraid to use them. I'm knitting myself a patchwork skirt, and have seriously thought about figuring out how to spin my own yarn. I'm a sucker for a singer-songwriter with an acoustic guitar. I haven't brushed my hair since the eighties. Mainly because if I brush it, it stands up all over my head, but never mind that now. Left to my own devices, I'll take off my shoes and socks and go barefoot. I swan around the house in a sarong. I've read Hermann Hesse and Carlos Casteneda, man. I am embracing my hippie tendencies. I am not ashamed of what I am!
But once I get this armpit thing under control? I'm going back underground.
